


Closer

by likeamadonna



Category: U2
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:06:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7139345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeamadonna/pseuds/likeamadonna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to Closer, the predictably titled sequel to Close. If you did not read that story, the following seventeen words should bring you up to speed, Cliff's Notes-style: </p><p>*In Close, Bono took Edge to New York, where they viewed some photos of Bono and kissed.*</p><p>This story takes place in New York, March 1992, during the filming of "One.". The formatting weirdness will continue, only this time it is Bono's turn, and he will be experiencing a series of flashbacks. </p><p>Sentences in quotes = Bono or Edge is speaking (90% of the time)<br/>Sentences without quotes = Bono's thoughts<br/>Sentences in parentheses = the voice of Edge inside Bono's mind...</p><p>This story is not true and I do not own Bono and Edge. I merely rent them. I love you for reading this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boy/Only/72/Us

**Author's Note:**

> "Later on we'll get ice cream," is a direct quote from the early 80s movie Arthur, one of my all-time favorite comedies. It's also my litmus test for any given piece of casual B/E dialogue I'm writing. Does whatever B's saying sound like it could come out of Arthur's (Dudley Moore's) mouth, and does E's line remind me of something Hobson (Sir John Gielgud) would say, except maybe science-ier? This litmus test does not work during sexy times (nor should it). I'm a weirdo.
> 
> This was lightly edited for surplus *that* usage, and I switched the occasional Reg to Edge. I was sorely tempted to cut the magazine discussion altogether, as I don't love it, but...eh. It gets mentioned again later on, plus it's the title of that chapter. I cut it down quite a bit, believe it or not.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading this and your very kind comments. <3

1: Boy.

"Oon, duh, trwah, katr, sank, sees, set, weet, nerf, dees..."

Are you hearing this?

(For the past five minutes.)

I want to put him in a soundproof booth. And then set it ablaze.

"Zhay uhn puh-tee tah-mee..."

(He's merely trying to learn some French.)

This is a restaurant, not a bilingual community outreach program. I'd like to drink my coffee in peace, is that so very much to ask?

(I'll be with you before you know it, B.)

"Say lah pruhm-yehr fwah..."

While I do not actively wish this individual harm, he is causing me to ponder the depths of my own inhumanity, Reg. And he is fucking oblivious.

(Seething accomplishes nothing. Look. His food has arrived and he's stopped.)

He has no idea how close he came to complete annihilation. He probably has fifteen pounds on me, but I could take him down. Easily.

(I'm sure you could. But we need you to be pretty tonight, remember?)

Don't remind me. And you're late. Where are you?

(Anton's show is closing and I am buying photographs of you. This is not news.)

I know, but tell me why one more time, Reg.

(I bought them to commemorate our night in New York almost two months ago.)

Which ones?

(As if you didn't know...the one with the diamond necklace and the violet and green photo.)

How brazen of you, buying erotic photography starring your best friend.

(I don't care what anyone says. And besides, it's...art.)

Keep telling yourself that, Edge.

(Finish your coffee.)

It's been two months...two months of my addiction to this new intimacy, two months since that cold January night. It seems so long ago; so many things have happened. That shaving scene was much more sexually charged than I could have imagined, and to think I suggested it on a whim... You stripped away the naughty façade I had been hiding behind all day, revealing a vulnerable boy. I watched the cool outer layer of your reserve slowly vanish, exposing a gentle, translucent eroticism, through which a blazing inner core could be seen. You wear two filmy skins, blue and green, which protect and conceal your mysterious red soul. And only I am allowed to see it.

(Crust, mantle, core.)

You kissed me for the first time in that damp, primordial atmosphere--cool lips framing a warm tongue, calloused fingers inspecting my reborn face--and suddenly I was poised on the brink of an unknown cliff, looking down at the stratified sheets of rock documenting our shared history. From the day we first met, I thought we were riding along on flatlands; I didn't realize our elevation was steadily increasing with each passing year; I didn't realize how high we were climbing until your lips showed me the drop-off and I gasped. I'm not afraid of heights, but I clung to your mouth for dear life.

It didn't matter to me that I had long since lost all feeling in my legs--I wanted our mouths to stay welded together indefinitely--but eventually you stood, pulling me up with you. Eyes opened, adjusting to the light and the dizzying new world our kiss had created. My fumbling hands found a shoulder, your waist, and temporarily rendered speechless, my mouth sought your ear.

You took a deep breath and murmured a few fragments...us retreating to our respective rooms, too much too fast, something. I made a feeble attempt at protestation, but ultimately I had to agree that we needed to step back from the precipice. But not before we shared one last kiss goodnight: smooth skin against rough, teeth trapping docile lips, inhalations transforming into sighs. You buttoned my shirt and straightened my collar. 'Beautiful boy,' you said.

(You liked that.)

 

2: Only.

I did try to sleep, and really, I should have been exhausted, but the night had other ideas. I devoted a good hour to finding hidden pictures in the patterns of curtains and shadows on the ceiling. I tried to relish the rare sensation of my smooth face on a cool pillow. I couldn't decide whether the room was too warm or too cold, and much time was wasted either huddling under blankets or sprawled on top of them. My fingers slid down lengths of freshly cut strands of hair, which ended sooner than I was accustomed to feeling. You had altered my appearance, a thought that only succeeded in making my nakedness a complete necessity. Beneath the muffled, low-level din of the city outside, I could hear that small, scraping sound of your razor on my skin paired with the beating of my own heart. I was certain you could hear it as well. Reg, what do you call that thing submarines have so they can tell when another ship is approaching? It's not radar...

(It's sonar.)

OK. I knew that contained within one of those rooms were your hands, your mouth--your body was a blip on my sonar but it was staying in the same spot. I kept waiting for the blip to move closer. Meanwhile, the blankets of my bed became a mountain range down the center of the mattress, with the overabundance of pillows acting as foothills. I tried to ignore the civil war my brain was waging.

Did I still want it? Yes. Did I set wheels in motion a long time ago? Yes. Was my objective indeed seduction? Yes. Did I want it to happen or did I merely want to see if I could make it happen? Yes. Was I feeling guilty or did I have a clear conscience? Yes. What would it be like? Yes.

This simply happened.

I made it happen.

I didn't know what I was doing.

I knew exactly what I was doing.

I saw your face.

Maybe I imagined this, or maybe... Burned onto the retinas of my eyes was a flashbulb-like image of you, lit from behind by the bathroom chandelier. Except the impression was like a film negative: your silhouette was white, surrounded by a halo of black diamonds.

(Negative after-image.)

What?

(It's an optical phenomenon...never mind. Go on. You are a marvelous storyteller, B.)

Maybe you're all I can see now.

It became too much to take. The rest of my body, untouched by you, cried out in dissent, envious of my face, neck, hands, mouth, and the V-shaped section of my chest, all of whom deified the tiny scrape near my chin, their king. The afterglow of your touch was like sunburn minus the pain.

Enough. I looked around for a robe and left the bedroom. It seemed a shame to let a good croquembouche go to waste, so I ate some in the dark. The caramel was stickier, cold, and certainly not as satisfying without the vehicle of your finger. I watched grainy snow collect on the window ledge...nuclear fallout from the bomb we had dropped on ourselves. I decided you wanted to have the rest of the dessert.

I crept into your dark room. A shaft of blue-gray light spilled through parted curtains and draped itself over your sleeping form. Were you sleeping or merely pretending? I had no choice but to harass you. If you were pretending, you needed to be caught in the act. If you were truly asleep, you needed to be awakened because I had spent quite a while tossing and turning--this was a big deal to me. And if you could easily drift off to sleep following an event that historic and significant...well, you deserved any amount of abuse.

I sat beside you on the bed and ate a miniature cream puff in the most insufferable, obnoxious way possible, making those appalling smacking sounds you can't tolerate. No response.

One of your arms was elegantly displayed on a nearby pillow, so I victimized every available hair, lightly skimming my fingertips over each one, a prizewinning torture technique that is as delicate as it is insidious. No response.

I tried another route. I removed the chain I was wearing around my neck and gingerly wound it around your wrist and fastened it, creating a sort of bracelet.

You remained silent and still. You appeared to be breathing. I saw an eyelid twitch.

I concluded that you were genuinely asleep, and I changed my mind about waking you, who shouldn't have had to put up with my badgering in the first place. I kissed your forehead chastely...

(That is a matter of opinion.)

...and as I attempted to get up, your hand seized my left arm, pulling me down onto the bed beside you. 'Only kissing,' you said, your voice a shadowy whisper. You had had some time to think, and possibly something to prove...and what you proved to me was this: you are utterly, irrevocably male. As I felt your voracious mouth capturing mine, as I felt your mustache abrading my upper lip, I knew I was undoubtedly kissing a man, kissing a man, kissing a man. I needed you to be that way, so foreign, so unlike... It's not what it is.

My hands instinctively required your neck and chest, but once again I heard you tell me, 'Only kissing.' Soon you were restraining my hands behind my back with one of your own, and I felt a surge of pleasure course through my body, accompanied by a feeling of drowning, of my soul collapsing with nowhere to fall but into you.

This...this is how discovery feels...

(scientific breakthrough)

...finding the right word...

(the right chords)

You were holding me back, making me wait for anything you'd give me. I was in the arms of a man. I struggled only to verify that your grip was firm around my wrists.

Your mouth became my plaything. I was kissing you in your bed, the very thought...and what was once a dormant volcano began to stir. You said you knew I would come to you. You told me to stay. Only kissing...

"Bono."

"Oh, Edge. I was just thinking about you."

 

3: 72.

"How far away is Nell's?"

"I have no idea. Don't worry; he knows where he's going, B."

"So how was Anton?"

"Bemused and delighted. Now that I have those photos of you, I don't know where I'm going to put them."

"This is what you're going to do, Edge. You need to buy the rest of them, and then you will build a private Bono chapel containing nine separate niches, one for each photo. You could hold worship services, prayer vigils--you could have a confessional! And I really must insist upon high vaulted ceilings and a certain amount of stained glass."

"Yes. That's definitely going to happen."

"Buy me a diamond necklace, Reg?"

"You could afford to buy one yourself."

"But it would mean so much more coming from you."

"We'll see."

"Edge, Adam was doing it again today."

"Doing what?"

"My new pet peeve: reading a magazine back to front. I have a groundbreaking theory about people who do that."

"Which is...?"

"They're terrible lovers."

"Clearly."

"Think about the way a magazine is organized. After the cover, it begins with page after page of flashy advertisements, the most expensive ones in the magazine."

"And then, eventually, the table of contents appears..."

"...with its tantalizing promises of things to come--just enough information to make you want to continue reading."

Beneath a thin layer of fabric I can feel the solid island of bone that is your kneecap, surrounded by malleable flesh. I'm pleased we're taking our time and continuing to be hyper-aware of each other's touch. Even my hand on your knee means something. You can't stop watching it, can you?

(You know I can't.)

Up it goes, reaching the long muscle of your upper leg, which instantly contracts, solid and tense, then relaxes, allowing my thumb to glide over its warm length.

(Rectus femorus is what it's called. Get back to whatever it was you were trying to prove, B.)

"So, Edge, what comes next?"

"There's usually a series of those little articles: light, easy reading...a few interesting tidbits and some charts and graphs here and there, moving you along from topic to topic."

"Do I need to explain that this part of the magazine is foreplay? I mean, you've got to read those little articles before you can move on, correct?"

"Oh absolutely. Big fan of the little articles."

Your arm, which is draped casually behind me and resting on the back seat of the car, slides down to my shoulders. Fingers idly play with my hair and the ring in my left ear before settling on the back of my neck.

(You don't know whether to convulse with laughter because it tickles or remain perfectly still.)

No one can see us, and this technically is not a public place, but still, this is a pretty bold move. Ten bonus points for you.

"All right, Reg. Now. After you've learned something from each and every one of those morsels of information, you'll notice the ads taper off.'"

"So you turn the page and there's always some kind of breathtaking visual."

"Something gorgeous with a brief caption that makes you say, 'Oh yes. This is why I bought this magazine in the first place.'"

"I must admit I normally browse through this section and mark the best parts with those dreadful subscription cards that fall into my lap. Then I'll come back to those articles, saving the best ones for last."

"Mmm, I like the way you think, Reg. Did you realize my face is on one of those dreadful cards in Rolling Stone now?"

"Congratulations. Do you enjoy falling into random laps?"

"I'm thrilling America one Rolling Stone reader at a time. So yes, back to what you were saying. A really good magazine might take...what, an hour to read?"

"I'm a slow reader."

"I'll bet you are. Afterward, you sit back, satisfied, as you reach the end pages, with those odd, sexy personal ads, the announcement of what's in store for next month's issue, and the flippant end page. And then you say goodnight to the magazine. It is indeed sex, am I wrong? And the fact that Adam starts at the end--does that not speak volumes about his skills in bed?"

"Volumes. Hey, B?"

"Yes?"

"What page are we on?"

Finally. That's what color they are. I've spent a decade and a half trying to best explain your unique and unsettling eyes and now I have it. Two standard globes--with blue oceans, white poles, and the continents in green, tan, yellow, and brown--take those globes, spin them vigorously, and the blurred colors that result are your eyes.

(Proud of you, B.)

I know. Me too.

"It's a big magazine. We're on page 72, still reading the little articles. This one's about separation anxiety."

"Oh, Bono."

"I have a feeling it's just going to be me tonight, and the rest of you will be somewhere else having all kinds of fun."

"No. Phil said we'd be in it too."

"Phil says a lot of things. This is going to take forever. I wish you could understand my struggle. Wait until we do the eleventh video for this song. On that glorious day, it will be you, all alone--no, wait--you with a buffalo. Have we exhausted the buffalo image yet? How about a moose? Yes, there you'll be in the sizzling afternoon heat with your moose companion, enduring dozens of takes because you'll never quite synchronize with the lyrics. Insects? Everywhere. Meanwhile, the person relaxing with a lovely picnic in the shade, toasting you? That will be me."

"You're the singer, not us."

"I know, I know."

"It can't be easy, being the face of U2."

"Hey, why can't Larry do this?"

"Because you're the one with the...Christ, just look at you."

"Not bad, eh?"

Your finger crosses my lips, tracing a line between them. I open my mouth and suck your finger, Edge, my teeth providing a provocative friction, my tongue swirling over the tip you sacrificed for our music, for me. And then the entire length is in my mouth.

(Not exactly a subtle gesture.)

Ahh, but it works. It works when you slide it out and I suck it back in. Spinning globes. I want to show you...I need this as much as you do.

"Bono...I think we're almost there. You be a good boy tonight. Later on we'll get ice cream."

 

4: Us.

"Hey, Phil."

"We need you in here first, Bono. Go ahead and have a seat. We'll talk after they've finished with you."

You certainly wasted no time in vaporizing, Edge.

(Have fun, B.)

A squadron of seven women beam at me. Their leader approaches, batting her abundant eyelashes.

"Evenin' sweetheart. My, don't we look handsome tonight?"

I sit and she runs a comb through my hair with the finesse of a bulldozer, nothing like your expert hands. A small stereo plays 'We Are the Champions', a song possessing the enviable ability to bring even the most diverse civilizations together in a spirit of brotherhood and inexplicable superiority. Freddie died four months ago. I take it upon myself to lead the hair and makeup ladies in the obligatory sing-along.

Soon another woman hovers around me with all the implements and products it now takes to make me seem marginally healthy. Adam pokes his head inside the room.

"Give him two black eyes, love. Phil wants it to look like someone's beaten the shit out of him."

"Don't you have a magazine to read, or something?"

"Oh. That's right. I think I left it with one of the many exotic dancers downstairs. Or maybe it was the cross-dresser with the red wig? I simply can't remember. But anyway, you have fun, Bono."

The time is right for complaining.

"The rest of the band won't have to be in this video. I'd be willing to bet good money. I don't see why I have to do all of this myself."

Woman number two pinches my chin, outlining the scar with her thumb.

"Oh, but you're the sexy one."

Several women laugh, then a veritable choir of voices chime in with their opinions, and the general consensus is that Adam is the cool one, Larry is the beautiful one, and you, Edge, are the smart one.

(Oh. That's just so great to hear.)

"Together, the four of you would make the perfect man," declares the chin pincher.

"Except for this little thing. How did you get this mark on your neck, The Sexy One?"

What mark?

(Uhh.)

Damn it, Edge.

"I don't think that is anyone's business."

"How cute! The Sexy One is blushing!"

The choir giggles and shrieks. The serious business of making me presentable has devolved into some kind of slumber party, which mercifully ends before Truth or Dare can begin. My thoughts and I are led to the murky, paneled bar to await further instructions.

I stayed in your bed that cold January night, periodically surfacing from surrealistic dreams to that hazy state of mind where nothing and everything makes perfect sense, and discovering your lips on my spine. Only kissing. I vaguely remember hearing zippers as you got your things together, followed by a barely audible news broadcast coming from a distant part of the suite, and finally the hiss of a shower. I began to understand the new dichotomy of our burgeoning romantic relationship. You would continue to be responsible for everything. And I would take care of room service.

'Hello. Coffee. 317. Now.'...'You are the person I spoke with last night.'...'It was without question the best pyramid of cream puffs we've ever eaten.'...'Coffee. And any other shamrock-laden insanities you think would be appropriate.'...'Yes. I am exactly who you think I am. And I can't emphasize this point enough: now. Don't make me come down there, Heidi.'

I located the bathrobe and returned to my room to pack what appeared to be my things: pretentious books, half-eaten candy, too many socks. I officially declared my bed a federal disaster area.

Room service was miraculously prompt. The coffee received high marks for meeting the required technical elements, while the score for artistic interpretation was off the chart, with pieces of French toast resembling, yes, shamrocks, little sausages speared by Irish flags, and an arrangement of pastries with green icing, including two unwound cinnamon rolls that created a U2 in the center. Beneath this adorable mess was a large map of Ireland with Dublin surrounded by multiple hearts drawn with a green marker, along with the words, 'I love you!! Please sign!!' With the thoughtfully provided marker I wrote, 'We love U2 Heidi!! Bono!!' and made a mental note to make sure you signed your name later!!

(I did exactly that!!)

I found you in the bathroom shaving, and I watched you quietly from the doorway. A towel was wrapped around your waist. I've known that body since I was a boy, but I've never looked upon it and seen...so many possibilities. I offered your left shoulder, your ribcage, your bare feet, and your calves a cup of coffee.

'Ehm, Reg? Did that happen?'

'Yes.'

'Good.'

'You've ruined this activity forever, you realize.'

'Sorry Edge.'

'Don't be. It's ruined in the best way possible.'

'Here.' I took my necklace from the sink and fastened it around your still-damp neck. 'This is yours now.' I gave the chain a gentle tug, pulling you closer to me as I kissed your ear. I turned my face slightly so I could watch our reflection in the mirror.

'Oh Reg, look at us...' We studied the unreal image of two sleepy people who looked a great deal like us doing something we've never done before.

Until

"So pensive!"

"Just trying to get into character, Phil."

"You'll be over here. I want to see what the light is doing; do you mind?"

"That's fine. But where is everybody?"

"Downstairs. There's quite a party going on."

"Can I...?"

"No. You'll have to stay up here for a while, I'm afraid. Sit still, that's good."

With that, another creative professional begins treating us, or rather me, like a simple children's toy. And if you buy the Bono action figure now, you'll get all this: tiny removable sunglasses, miniature cigarettes and alcoholic beverages of every kind, festive all-black snap on wardrobe, and deluxe bar play set with bonus beautiful models, cameras, and bossy director. Edge, Larry, and Adam action figures sold separately.

Having my own action figure would be cool, though.

I'm improving, but it's still going to be unnerving to sing to the black, concentric circles of a camera lens instead of a living person. My job is to seduce it, to change its mind, to convince it that I am right. But it doesn't flirt back, and most of the time I don't know if I should try harder or give up. Kind of like with you, Reg.

(Until a couple of months ago, anyway.)

That morning was blindingly sunny.

(It was warmer.)

Let's call it 'slightly less bone-crushingly frigid.' The driver took us through the park, and I watched the ice melting, falling from the limbs of all the trees, shattering into tiny, doomed crystals that melted the second they hit the pavement.

'Can you handle this, B?'

'We shouldn't feel guilty. Technically we remain status quo. Touching, kissing--we've done that many times before and nobody cares.'

'But this was different. We were walking a line and we crossed it, and you know it.'

And we both wanted more.

'How do you like this for irony, Edge: just a few days ago Ali and I were talking about you, and do you know what she said? "He's as much your wife as I am."'

'You've got to be kidding.'

'No, really. She knows you understand and look out for me, especially when we're touring, and she always displays a certain amount of wonder at our...friendship. I don't think she sees you as any kind of competition. She loves you, of course. You're like a sort of brother to her, someone who knows what it's like to deal with me on a daily basis.'

'She's got a point there.'

'I know. It's...'

'What do you think she would...'

'I think she'd be deeply troubled if she knew what happened between us last night. On the other hand, maybe she would be surprised it had not happened sooner.'

'Why is it so many people automatically assume that about us?'

'Two words, Edge: wishful thinking.'

'You are a deeply disturbed individual.'

'All right then. Maybe when something is meant to happen, it's easier for others to see it.'

'So. Are you still okay with this?'

'I think so. Are you?'

'Aside from the obvious troubling thoughts, Bono, I feel like a different human being. I opened my eyes this morning as the sun was rising. The room was positively golden. I looked over at you, still asleep, and seeing you there seemed like the most natural thing in the world.'

'Oh Reg.'

'Do you think you should tell her?'

'I don't know. I don't want to ease my conscience at the expense of hurting her. If it would hurt her. It would. God, I don't know. Anyway, what if nothing comes of this? I need some time to think.'

'Of course, B. And this...whatever it is...we can take it slowly, see where it goes, if anywhere. No use hurting her if nothing much has happened. It was...'

'...only kissing. And let's say this: if one of us wants out, we remain friends. Deal?'

'Yes.'

'Right now we're merely, ehm, exploring.'

'How long was my guitar in your possession, anyway?'

'Approximately three hours. That's all I'm going to say at this time.'

'I have ways of making you talk.'

'So you say.'

You placed your hand on my heart. One year ago I would have felt gravity. Weight. One object encountering another. That morning your mouth and hands became more than mere body parts belonging to a friend of mine. They acquired the power to make me feel like I was stopped at the top of a ferris wheel, or looking at our new stage for the first time, or driving just a little too fast at night.

"Everything looks good, Bono."

I reach into my coat pocket for my lighter. I also find the chain I gave you and a small piece of paper. It reads, 'Wear this for me. And sing to your demons tonight.'


	2. Notes/Weight/Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to this next big chunk, in which poor B has to lip-synch to "One" again and again, read some rather surreal letters with formats that will require some suspension of disbelief on your part, and converse with imaginary-Edge.
> 
> I enjoyed writing about "weight" the most here. When you're alone, that's one thing you crave so much. That and lips. And skin on skin. But weight is right up there.
> 
> I quoted one or two parts of this story pretty much verbatim in "Hidden In Plain Sight" because, I dunno, I think I've heard B repeat his own quotes at least 97 times in recent memory, haven't you?

5: Notes

 

What am I singing to? My demon is a lens, a black, bottomless pit.

(You know what I mean.)

How can I sing to my demons when no sound comes out of my mouth?

(Maybe your demons can read lips. Put on the necklace.)

All these notes of yours, Edge... Earlier I said that beneath your two skins lies a blazing red core.

(And I thought you captured my essence perfectly.)

No. What I meant to say was this. Beneath your two skins lies a fourteen year-old girl.

(It takes one to know one.)

I rest my case.

(Do you remember my first note?)

You would not let me save it--you couldn't be sure I would keep it in a safe place--and I don't blame you one bit. We were flying back home later that morning. You were using the time wisely as always, arranging your businesslike thoughts, and I was doing everything I could to distract you. I complained that the cabin pressure was messing with my ears, and you told me to start yawning. So I did.

(There's a difference between normal yawning and engaging in a full-body erotic celebration. With gratuitous moaning and follow-up lip licking.)

Vive la difference, Reg. I watched you write pathologically tiny messages to yourself on--what do you call that paper? It looks like a checkerboard?

(Quad rule paper. Some people call it graph paper. It's the best way to work.)

Yes, you would require both horizontal and vertical organization. You had all kinds of arrows connecting your ideas, which were surrounded by smart boxes. You even employed a second pen for bold printing. I don't think I need to tell you how utterly arousing that was for me.

(I know what boys like.)

You were being dangerously cute, Edge. What did I whisper to you?

(I believe you said something along the lines of, 'Stop thinking about my mouth, Reg.')

You put down your pens and stared up at the ceiling, all neck, smiling discretely. You turned to look at me, a dreamy expression on your face. And then back to work.

That profile of yours...how many times have I lobbied for its attention, onstage or otherwise? The oblique angle of your cheekbones; deep-set eyes lurking beneath the vast canopy of your brow; that infuriatingly perfect nose...I whispered to you, 'Don't look at me,' and watched the right half of your mouth arrange itself into a grin. Encouraged, I continued, 'What were you doing to my body last night as I slept in your bed?'

(I tore out a new sheet of paper, wrote my response, and passed it to you.)

' _I want you to give this back to me after you've read it. I kissed every inch of your right arm. When you rolled onto your stomach, I went to work on your back. I kissed your eyelids and strands of hair. I told you I was falling in love with you._ ' God, Edge, that still gets to me.

(After I whispered it you hummed an abstract little melody in your sleep. I can hear it now.)

"Any time you're ready, Bono. Just be your usual intense self."

I refuse to let you ruin this song for me, Phil. I refuse to allow your repetition to strip this song of all meaning, Phil. I will be singing this song at every concert for the rest of my life, and I fully intend to enjoy those experiences, Phil.

"Yes, that's perfect. Your expression right now is exactly what I had envisioned."

"Phil, if you're happy, I'm happy."

Think about Edge. Sing for Edge. Think about that night in his bedroom.

" _...you say / one love / one life / when it's one need / in the night..._ "

We arrived in Dublin at three o'clock in the morning, but in our minds it was still early evening. Once we were alone at last in the car, I became kind of...

(...grabby.)

I couldn't help myself. Hours of tension needed to be appeased. Thank god you had the presence of mind to lay down some ground rules for us. Otherwise I would have eaten you alive.

(The main rule was: slow down. Kissing and talking were permissible, but we needed to approach this patiently.)

Yes, Mr. Rationality. Thanks for making our every subsequent exchange that much sexier, that much more overwrought. You can be pretty diabolical when you choose to be, Edge. But I would be lying if I said I didn't like the idea of you being in charge, and I admitted as much...

(You purred into my ear...)

'I loved it when you held my hands behind my back last night. Being told what to do...was irresistible. It goes without saying that I will be spending some time at your place before I go home. Oh, and before I forget, I'm falling in love with you, Edge.'

 _"...you say / one love / one life / when it's one need / in the night..."_  
_"...you say / one love / one life / when it's one need / in the night..."_  
_"...you say / one love / one life / when it's one need / in the night..."_

 

6: Weight.

 

(You're doing it again.)

Doing what?

(That tongue thing.)

I'm bored out of my mind. Here's an encapsulation of the past four hours: daydream about you, pretend to sing the song, attempt to sneak downstairs and spy on you while they change film, get screamed at and ordered back, give Bill some world-class quotes for his book, sit around waiting to pretend to sing the song another dozen times...of course I'm doing that tongue thing.

(What is its appeal?)

I think that's pretty self-explanatory. Try it again. Open your mouth slightly, point your tongue, and use it to draw little snaky shapes on the roof of your mouth.

(This is truly the cheapest of thrills. It is fun to watch you do it, though. Your IQ appears to plummet as you take on the glazed expression common to most mouth-breathers. You should do the tongue-folding thing instead.)

That pastime is strictly for perverts, Edge. But why am I concerning myself with tongue folding when I can think about the two of us, standing outside your unlit doorway on that damp, misty night? Your keys were jangling like sleigh bells as you tried to find the right one in the dark.

(And you were so impatient with your relentless, 'Hurry, hurry, damn it Edge.')

You didn't even bother to turn on the lights once we were inside; you took me by the shoulders and slammed me up against a wall, saying you had waited for exactly ten hours and forty-five minutes.

(I was impatient too.)

I could feel the wall, cool against the back of my neck, contrasting with the warmth of your mouth as it examined the acquiescent flesh just below my chin. Your body lingered near mine, still retaining a bit of distance. Our coats drifted to the floor. I began to...

(...beg.)

'Please Edge can we...?' I kissed your lips; you tasted like cloves and copper.

'Can we what?' You took my hands.

'I need to know...' I raised our hands to my lips, kissing random fingers; yours, mine, it didn't matter.

'Need to know what?' Your mouth joined mine at our fingers.

'How it feels.' Something made me turn my face to the side; I couldn't look at you, even in the dark.

'How what feels?' Our hands touched my jaw, and turned my face back to meet yours.

'Your weight...' I disentangled my right hand, and meeting your eyes, I placed it on your chest.

'On what?' One arm, two arms encircled me.

'On my body...please Edge, can we?' I knew once my lips encountered your neck they would be reluctant to leave.

'Yes.' That word, those faint moans were a personal victory.

'Clothes on.' My lips had no intention of leaving.

'Yes.' I could feel you...

'Only kissing.' Against me...

'Yes.' Warm...

'Take me upstairs.'

You took my right hand and led me up a familiar flight of stairs in the semi-darkness. Our hands clung to each other tightly, forming a resilient bond that resembled a human heart, pumping blood through both of our bodies. Once on the landing, I could see your face more clearly in the colorless light: eyes half open, a bitten lower lip. Without a sound, you backed me into the room until I encountered the end of the bed and slowly sat down, my eyes adhering to yours. You looked down at me, an angel in a silent movie monitoring me from above, affectionately stroking my hair. Oxygen remembered to enter my lungs.

Your free hand touched my shoulder, guiding it down to blankets that smelled like fresh canvases. I moved artlessly toward the center of the bed and reached up to you. Soon you were on your hands and knees, hovering over me, our faces inches apart. I began to realize what was about to happen, and I wanted it desperately. I began to un-tuck your shirt, but you whispered...

('I still don't trust your hands, B.')

What could I say to that? I raised them over my head and back until they found two little posts on your headboard. You said...

('That's better.')

I nodded, feeling an aching sensation spread throughout my chest. _Please Edge_...I looked into your eyes again. They closed and so did mine as I felt the weight of your body, warm and taut, then relaxed, and finally melting over mine. Such a divine burden. My legs parted, seemingly of their own volition, and when I thought about this later, I wondered why that movement had been so spontaneous. Why did they instinctively know they had to part?

(For the same reason that we were each automatically hard the second I unlocked that door.)

You said...

('This is how it feels, Bono.')

While you created a composition of lingering kisses on my forehead, it was time for me to plead again. 'Just one. That's all. One time. Please Reg, I need to know.'

(And because you were being so good...)

Your hips sank down between mine, and I was rewarded with one thrust, one hint. I gasped. You said...

('Have I satisfied your curiosity?')

'Not in the slightest.' You raised yourself up on your elbows and watched me.

(Your eyes were glowing like twin suns.)

I asked, 'If I could stay, what would you do next?'

('I would open your shirt, kiss your heart...')

'And then what, Edge?'

('That's all I'm going to say at this time.')

'Okay. I arranged to have Larry call you at precisely 16:00 on November 4, 1991. Your guitar was returned, unharmed, to its stand approximately three hours later.'

('You'd be a terrible spy, you know.')

'I know.'

('You'd break under questioning.')

'I have an extremely low tolerance for torture.'

('This is torture?')

'You have no idea, Edge.'

We remained on the bed, quietly kissing and sighing and generally torturing each other for several more minutes before finally disengaging. 'Will you miss me tonight?'

('You'll be in my thoughts.')

'I should hope so. Edge? I meant what I said earlier...you know.'

('And I love you, Bono.')

 _"...one love / we get to share it / it leaves you baby / if you don't care for it..."_  
_"...one love / we get to share it / it leaves you baby / if you don't care for it..."_  
_"...one love / we get to share it / it leaves you baby / if you don't care for it..."_

It's easy to feel like you're the only person alive when it is three o'clock in the morning. Too early for even the earliest risers, too late for even the most dedicated night owls--the only people conscious in Dublin at that time were the driver, Edge, and me. Multicolored lights were reflected on the wet streets, creating temporary masterpieces of abstract expressionism. I thought about the lost night.

Then, it seemed smaller, but I was indeed home. I saw several items on a shelf and marveled that they had not moved an inch during the entire time I was gone. I draped my coat around the back of a chair and noticed that Ali had baked an apple cake. It sat on the kitchen table, covered with clear plastic wrap, one slice missing. Made with her own hands. I sat at that table and wept.

She was of course asleep, buried under at least six blankets, her preferred mode of slumber. After she married me and was forced to lie beside a cheery campfire for the rest of her life, she told me she missed being able to sleep beneath all of that weight.

Weight. _I need to know how it feels, Reg._ Christ. How could I have those thoughts in that house?

'I'm home love,' I whispered, and she murmured drowsily, a dear little bunny, snug in her nest.

(How could you look at that beautiful face and still want me, Bono?)

Because I still want you and your beautiful face, Edge. I do.

I knew for a fact that attempting to sleep would quickly become an exercise in futility. I stumbled into the bathroom, all blinding brightness and gleaming surfaces and unwelcome mirrors. I saw my reflection and promptly turned out the light. I undressed in the dark, my fingers touching the buttons you wanted to unfasten no more than an hour earlier. God help me, I smiled when I thought about that.

You wanted to undress me. You cut my hair. We spent the night together. You kissed me as I slept. My legs parted for you. You were in love with me.

My hands moved over my torso and down. 'He wants this,' I whispered. I turned on the shower and adjusted the spray to its most punishing setting.

(Why?)

For understandable reasons. But also, it felt more...male. Rougher. Better. An onslaught of water came shrieking out of the shower head. I raised my arms and let it engulf me. I heard your dark voice reminding me that we were only kissing. And then one hand came down and became your hand. The other caressed my jaw, already rough again, requesting an encore presentation of last night's performance. I wanted you in there with me, Reg, naked, wet, hard. I wanted you to feel the necessary, sanity-saving release. My body informed my mind that I wanted you inside of me. Taking me. And for the first time in my life, I cried out your name...

I turned off the screaming water. And I heard the baby cry.

 _"...you say / love is a temple / love the higher law / love is a temple / love the higher law..."_  
_"...you say / love is a temple / love the higher law / love is a temple / love the higher law..."_  
_"...you say / love is a temple / love the higher law / love is a temple / love the higher law..."_

 

7: Silence.

(I can't believe you.)

There's something highly attractive about stealing from you, Edge.

(You will pay.)

I certainly hope I will be severely chastised. But really, I wrote these. It gave me something to do while the rest of you were rehearsing, that's all. I see nothing wrong in temporarily borrowing them from you. And you made it all too easy, placing them in their own folder labeled 'B-Feb.'...in chronological order, no less. A person this organized deserves some chaos in his life.

(Interesting mixed media approach to letter writing, B.)

I prefer to call them _belles lettres_ , Reg, and yes, each was composed on materials that were pregnant with symbolism and poignancy--

(So. Basically you wrote on the first thing you could get your hands on at any given moment.)

Yes.

(Written in your inimitable scrawl.)

I'm surprised you didn't go through them with a red pen, making corrections.

(I take it you're not going downstairs again?)

Reg, as appealing as it is to see you surrounded by transvestites and strippers, your eyes outlined in turquoise, I really just want this to be over. Oh. Look at this first one.

(Written on what appears to be a white paper bag.)

So I bought some oranges. It's called recycling. And I decorated it with a pattern of triangles; I think it's rather festive.

.................................................................

_The next day. Tuesday?_

_I awakened this afternoon to a big steaming cup of sexual confusion. At first I didn't know where I was. Then I smelled Ali's perfume on the pillow beside me, accompanied by a tsunami of images...watching you attempting to scratch that impossible spot between your shoulder blades, doing it for you and hearing you groan contentedly...whispering BonoBonoBono into your ear until you finally said my name...waking to find myself in your arms again, kissing your chest, and moving my hands behind my back...hearing a siren and feeling your embrace tighten around me._

_I staggered into the middle of her busy day, the prodigal husband at the kitchen table. She wondered if I was hungry. 'Got any fatted calf?' I asked. I fell into astronaut mode, answering her questions with efficient cordiality, using a black pen to outline the contours of faces in the newspaper (enclosed)._

_She correctly assumed I'd be at rehearsal late into the night. Once again we became one of those unfortunate couples forced to live on two completely different schedules, and it was time for me to work the second shift at the factory. I found it difficult to look into her eyes--have they always seemed so prescient? Guilt is not the word, but she confused my guilt with pre-tour stress, told me there was nothing to worry about, and stroked my recalcitrant hair._

_Did you hear what Larry said to me? 'So glad you could finally make it,' a sentence that carried a distinct hint of judgment._

_And now I'm watching you. Wanting you._

_B._

......................................................................

Next. It's on complimentary Plaza stationery with an ornamental, hand-shredded border.

(Fancy.)

As a matter of fact I am.

......................................................................

_Wednesday_

_Oh Edge,_

_You said something at Heathrow that stayed with me. We were watching a flood of humanity passing from left to right on one of those moving sidewalks. 'We'll never see these faces again,' you said, comparing the scene to a cemetery--observing all those anonymous people whose stories we'll never know but are no less important than our own._

_Look at you, sitting in the comfortable eye of your tornado of sound. It surrounds you like a forcefield, and I've learned this lesson long ago: my attempts to charm you are no match for your mistress the guitar, even when you're perfecting the same cyclical progression. A lesser man would be jealous, I hope you know. But I have always felt fortunate to even be in the same room with you and your preternatural gifts, watching you lose track of time, of others. You communicate with your instrument in that unknowable language that combines the elegance of mathematics with the beauty and intelligence of pure art. Ahh, you've raised your head and are gazing into the middle distance. What are you seeing on your visual screen? ...And it's back to business. Your posture--I'd love to caress your shoulders, which must be aching--your body is curving into your guitar, conforming to its shape, almost as if you'd like to crawl inside it, become one with it. Your fingers examine the neck, traveling over the same surface they've known for years but still managing to uncover new sounds. You must have kissed every inch of my right arm this way._

_Again, what a bizarre life we lead. Men with normal jobs are not thrown together like this--living and traveling with each other, away from their families for months on end, existing inside an enclave of managers and handlers. The lives of most men are not this inextricably bound, occupying a curious middle ground that exists somewhere between brothers and lovers. If we weren't doing this, if we were everyday people, what would our relationship be like? Would we be...golf buddies? Casual acquaintances? Would we even know each other?_

_I've been thinking about us--I can't think about anything else, it seems--and I've been asking myself the question: what is cheating? This doesn't feel like it. It feels right, undeniably right. There's room for you and Ali in my heart, and I fully realize I don't deserve either of you. But I do need you both for different reasons, and I'm beginning to appreciate that you are claiming territory in my soul that she does not require, and you are revealing questions I've had about myself that only you can answer._

_B._

......................................................................

And the technical difficulties continue. Why is it, Edge, that we can haul a television station around the world and produce glitch-free multimedia spectacles on a semi-nightly basis...

(I wouldn't exactly call them glitch-free.)

...and yet these people can't set up a couple of simple cameras and really rudimentary lighting without generating one hassle after another?

(Calm down, love. Read my letters.)

'Love'...even the imaginary version of you can ambush me with one syllable. All right. Well, this one is more of a throwaway, written on a jumbo index card, adorned with a smudge and a diagram of a sea elephant.

........................................................................

_Friday_

_Reg, please disregard this smudge (fig.1a). I was minding my own business when a fucking wasp attacked me. A fucking wasp! I had no choice but to butcher it with this index card, and its hateful wasp soul has now passed from this world to the realm of wind and ghosts. I'm sorry Reg; I know you kind of like wasps (why??). But it had to be done._

_This morning I was watching a program about sea elephants (fig.1b) with the sound turned down as unrelated music played on the stereo ('Three Times a Lady' by The Commodores). I laughed so loudly that Ali came in, saw what I was doing, and rolled her eyes. I turned the television sound up as the alpha male (with that repulsive, floppy thing on his face) and his harem began bellowing what sounded like 'Norm! Norm!' Delighted, I joined in, tickling a shrieking Ali until she did the same._

_The poor dear is indeed counting the days. She has gone so far as to mount a paper chain by the telephone, tearing off one ring every twenty-four hours. This chain is ostensibly for Jordan, who can't count and doesn't understand that Daddy is famous._

_Oh for God's sake. You are a dead man, Adam Clayton! Don't ask._

_Well, reading this letter was a complete waste of your time. I'll give you something more substantial this afternoon._

_The angle of the sun is changing, Reg._

_B._

....................................................................

(Such randomness.)

Just like changing channels, isn't it? I remember the next one, and it's a visual tour-de-force, written on an oblong paper doily, rolled up scroll-style, and secured with an industrial-strength rubber band.

(That doily came with the donuts, didn't it?)

Hence the grease stains. I turned them into little faces. What?

.....................................................................

_Friday (later)_

_My dear Reg,_

_They hover above my head like a sexual sword of Damocles, threatening to fall at any moment: your hands, your eyes, your voice, your tongue. I want them to fall on me when I least expect it. And sometimes they do. I didn't know it, but yesterday you were following me to my car--I was retrieving a book. Before I could exit, I felt a familiar hand on my back, guiding me into one of those vacant rooms. You so like to corner me, don't you?_

_I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the element of danger. We are accomplices, co-conspirators who have successfully stolen the Hope diamond, only we can't resist taking our rare blue treasure out of its hiding place to watch it sparkle in the sun._

_Last night you were so tense. I had been telling you to snap out of it all day. I'm glad I was able to calm you down. You rested your head in my lap as we relaxed on your couch. You've been so alone. How can you go home with no one there to listen to your concerns, no one to take care of you, kiss you, and tell you how brilliant you are? I stroked your forehead with my fingertips, moving them slowly from left to right. Mother used to do that when I wasn't feeling well._

_Neither of us made a sound. I looked down at you and said a silent prayer, thanking God for your presence in my life. How many people pass you on the street, unaware that they've just seen the most extraordinary being, an unassuming genius, the perfect friend, a man who stands for everything that is right and decent and good?_

_Because I can see it--I always have, Edge. I love you._

_B._

...........................................................................

As if I needed to further beguile you, I composed one last letter before we moved the entire operation to the States. I took the dust jacket off some horrible Judith Krantz novel I swear I didn't read...

(Sure.)

...and I wrote on the blank side. But isn't the cover hilarious? All that glitter and simulated gold lame'?

(Doesn't remind me of anyone I know, not in the slightest.)

............................................................................

 

_Thursday_

_Malaysia. How many instances in a person's life does the word Malaysia make an appearance? Not too many. And yet: I know every time you say the word it will be May-laysia, which is incorrect, but that's not the point. The point is I can predict how you will pronounce even the most obscure words--I know you that completely._

_In case you're worried, I put that one-word message you gave me in an ambiguous section of my wallet. But I disagree with you: I was not engaging in such naked displays of flirtation brazen enough to be declared a 'saucebox.' All I did was comment that I hated shaving and wished I could hire someone to do it for me every day. Then I drizzled some honey onto my tongue. Adam didn't seem to think anything out of the ordinary was happening. I had fun watching your fake coughing fit and decided to devote the remainder of the evening to murmuring empty little propositions into your ears whenever possible._

_America. Land of the big sexy cars. You know that slightly perverse sensation of freedom you get when you drive by a prison? I've been experiencing that for days now. It saddens me to leave my family behind, but Reg, I'm so excited. My heart is pumping pure adrenaline. And we can be together soon. We probably won't see much of each other until we leave on Monday. But I can't wait to see what is in store for me tonight._

_'Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid,' Edge._

_B. & Goethe_  
  
.............................................................................

(And an interesting night it was.)

Silence. Who knew it could be so...effective?

(I did.)

You drove a bit too slowly for my taste and rarely said a word. Not that I noticed. Once I started talking about new ways to spend the band's money, my momentum became virtually unstoppable. I asked an inconsequential question, glanced at your profile, and watched you smile. 'Let's be quiet for a while, B,' you suggested.

(You tried your best to sit still, but every now and then the telltale friction of leather on leather betrayed your impatience. After I unlocked my door I had to quiet you again.)

At that point I could tell you were up to something, so I played along. I followed you into your bedroom and saw you turn on a couple of small lamps. Then you crossed the room and sat in a chair. I moved to sit beside you but you said...

('Stand there. Take off your jacket.')

I followed your instructions, smiling at you quizzically.

('You like attention...I want to look at you.')

Such a simple request and yet...during the years we had known each other, I can't remember one example of you blatantly studying me for minutes at a time, uninterrupted, an unspoken desire inside you that I had been subconsciously courting all this time. As I stood before you, I watched your eyes travel over my body, calmly assessing me, your head tilted slightly. I didn't know what to do with my hands and you sensed this. You seemed to will them down to my sides. Minutes passed; our breathing and a light rain outside were the only sounds we heard. Both of us flinched when the furnace kicked on. Otherwise, a palpable, magical silence filled the space between us, and I certainly had no intention of breaking it.

Occasionally our eyes met, and it seemed as if you were attempting to memorize me. Then your gaze returned to my chest, my thighs. You were claiming my body, and a delicious feeling of objectification swept over me, which only intensified when you whispered...

('Turn around.')

Being unable to see your eyes was maddening. I tried to discern what they were seeing, but I knew they were all over me. My breathing became shallow, and I looked around your bedroom for a mirror or some glass surface that might reveal your reflection. All I saw was your bed. I had to marvel at your consummate subtlety. If I were running the show, and thank God I was not and am not, the two of us would have been a tangle of arms and legs, devouring each other blindly like wild beasts. While that image is certainly not without its allure, it would have meant that this fragile period of seduction, this erotic dance would be over far too quickly. The idea that weeks, even months might pass with us still on the same tightrope...oh Edge.

I heard you shift and rise from your chair. Suddenly your hand was stroking my chin and jaw, your breath was in my ear, and your body was electric and hard against my back. You still wouldn't let me see your face. Trembling slightly, your fingers slipped down my neck and then back to my face, your nails gently scraping my skin. And then, your voice...

('You can't stop thinking about it, can you?')

I shook my head and you continued...

('Don't worry. Soon there will be plenty of opportunities for me to shave your beautiful face again and again, Bono.')

"Let's try this again, Bono."

"Whatever you say."


	3. Portrait/Spider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More. 
> 
> Making a Warhol tape is easy and effective, by the way. And strawberry ice cream is delicious. <3

8: Portrait.

 

How long to sing this song, Edge? Seven hours? Ten?

(Nine.)

Tell me to never get creative with Phil again.

(Never get creative with Phil again.)

Not even a little bit. I mean, what could I have been thinking? We were this close to finishing up, and right in the middle of a line I closed my mouth as the lyrics continued. I got as far as "you say," but how many times must a man be required to sing about temples and higher laws in one night? So I stopped and stared down the camera. And Phil loved it.

(Baby...)

We had to re-shoot it twelve more times with my new creative interpretation, and I know he's still going to use the first take.

(Of course. But it's over?)

Yes, at last.

(And where am I?)

That's a damned good question. Actually I heard Bill say that he wanted to talk with you not too long ago.

(It never ends.)

You should tell him all about your upcoming predawn rendezvous with your boyfriend Bono.

(A lip-smacking tidbit of information with the potential to destroy entire civilizations.)

It would spice up whatever it is he is writing.

(I'm sure I am doing everything I can to extricate myself.)

This whole enterprise tonight was almost as annoying as watching a professional tennis match. Bad serve, out of bounds, one decent volley, rain delay, bad serve, foot fault, decent volley, bad serve...it's a rhythm similar to that of traveling. Not that anyone's complaining. Really. As hectic as the past three weeks have been, this tour is positively exhilarating. Initially I had worried that recent events would negatively influence the way we might interact onstage. And you wouldn't be my Edge if you hadn't spent a few sleepless nights wondering about it as well. But...

(...it's helped us.)

The sexual tension between us has only enhanced our performances. I'm able to become this showman, this...ringmaster because I know you are watching every move I make, now more than ever. And no one realizes each time I pose or flirt or preen you are indeed my target. When I push my hair out of my face or even touch my jaw, my actions are coded, and only we know what those things mean. And you remain so cool, so tantalizingly in control. Whenever I approach you it's Jane Austen time: lowered eyes, a half smile, a raised eyebrow. Too bad you don't have a third hand to hold a fan or prepare and serve the perfect cup of tea. Before each concert I've received a piece of paper from you with a single song title written on it.

(Our song for the night.)

I'm supposed to sing that song to us, to you. So I knew I was in trouble last night because the note said...

('Even Better.')

My Fly behavior was subsequently more over-the-top than usual during the first two verses, and I made a point of looking directly at you during obvious phrases such as 'let me be your lover tonight.' My eyes conveniently hidden behind those sunglasses, I emphasized the word 'blow' with particular glee and was rewarded with a rare sighting of Edge teeth.

(You are truly shameless.)

You ignored me during your solo, which was lovingly, fetishistically filmed by your pretty little songbird.

(I was considering my next move.)

And that was to wink--I couldn't believe it; you winked at me--during the 'she' in 'here she comes.' Jesus Christ, Edge.

(Leaving you to spin around with your adoring camera, attempting to hit certain high notes without my assistance. For a change.)

Not that anyone's complaining about having to sing backup during the first three songs every single night.

(Who, me? I don't mind at all. Our fans must assume that I've been in some kind of horrific motorcycle accident, that's all.)

We both know everything's in working order, Edge.

"Edge!"

"How was it?"

"Awful!"

"Poor boy...look, I'm sorry, but I'll be back in a little while. Can you wait for me in the car?"

"Would you like to tell me why I have to keep waiting?"

"No."

"Unfair."

"Yes. I suggest you think about Valentine's Day. That should keep you busy."

At least I still have you around to entertain me, Substitute Edge. Say something sexy while I walk out to the car.

(I've been wanting your mouth for so long, B.)

Sexier.

(I'm going to enjoy helping you become proficient in pleasing me this way, B.)

OK. You can stop now.

"Hi, uhh, it'll be a few minutes, I think."

"No problem, sir."

Valentine's Day, a celebration of compulsory love...some years I am sorely tempted to rebel against the concept of this alleged holiday, which by its very nature is the antithesis of romance. Why should anybody tell me that some arbitrary Friday has to be the most passionate night of my year? Ridiculous. Other years, especially when I am far from home, I find this idea strangely compelling, and I tend to go overboard with grand, dramatic gestures. This was one of those years.

I had made sure my girls would be lavished with flowers, jewels, candy, and toys. Ali, who has always displayed a refreshingly non-female skepticism toward Valentine's Day, was nevertheless bubbly and adorable over the phone that morning. And I really missed her; how could I not? But an unusual serenity came over me after the call, something seemed enigmatic and different to me, and I knew that I couldn't regret my love for you, Edge, because that's what it is: love.

The concierge, no stranger to unusual requests from room 407, corralled a selection of children's art supplies that was in my possession within the hour. I also asked for and received a small box of those little candy hearts with messages on them. Satisfied, I constructed a valentine for you, decorated with line drawings of snowflakes, stars, guitars, and flies. I glued a candy heart in the center, message side down, and took out a red felt tip pen. I considered writing various pornographic slogans on the heart but ultimately decided a simple 'Love you Edge' would probably be a classier idea. I put it in an envelope and placed it on the room service cart, which arrived at your door at precisely ten o'clock, as usual. You can be so predictable sometimes. Within minutes you slid a retaliatory note under my door. I tore into it greedily...

('Bono, come to my room tonight at ten. Wear something red, and I want you to line your eyes in black. E.')

Well, well, well. Needless to say, the next twelve hours crawled by, even though all of us had many things to do and oversee. I don't know how you were able to focus on all your tasks. Then again, you knew what you were going to do to me that night. I had a couple of gifts for you.

(Your Andy Warhol homage was highly appropriate. We should have used it for 'One' instead of what was shot tonight and saved everyone a whole lot of time.)

I knew you would like it. I had been listening to Willie talk about Andy Warhol's avant-garde films from the Sixties, like the static shot of the Empire State Building lasting eight hours, or the man eating one mushroom over a forty minute time period. He also did a series of movie portraits, silent cinematic mug shots of beautiful women. One at a time, he would ask them to sit and stare into his frozen camera lens for several minutes. Nearly all of his subjects would start out stiff and mannered, and not really sure what to do, but after a while each would loosen up, smile, and become...real, herself. And so beautiful.

Inspired by this idea and the night when all you wanted to do was look at me, one afternoon I set up a camera and videotaped myself. I pretended the camera was you and did the Warhol thing for as long as I possibly could. Then I read a book, drank a glass of water, ate a nectarine at normal speed, made a drawing of the camera...I can't remember everything else I did to fill that two-hour tape. In the end I thought it was completely unwatchable, but I've seen it playing on your TV several times.

(With that tape, the voice in my head, and you, I think I am receiving an adequate amount of vitamin B these days.)

Vitamin B and vitamin E! So. After a day of necessary avoidance, the magic hour arrived at last, and once again my sunglasses came to the rescue. My black eyeliner, the acquisition of which is a whole other story, was undetectable behind them. Thus disguised and wearing the mandatory red shirt, I knocked on your door. Dressed in black, you pulled me inside and wished me a happy Valentine's Day.

You removed the sunglasses and smiled approvingly as your hands endeavored to release three buttons. Soon I felt five fingers directly over my heart, five more in my hair, and two lips kissing mine. You smelled like fireworks, just barely.

'What's in the shopping bag?' you asked.

I pulled out the videotape. 'For the man who has everything,' I said, launching into an explanation of the Warholian concept. You insisted we watch it together. 'Edge, this is too much Bono for even me,' I said, but my protests fell upon deaf ears. You sat down on a leather couch, and anticipating that I would do the same, you told me...

('You'll be sitting on the floor beside me, Bono.')

You held my gaze for a few seconds as those words began to sink in...all right, Edge. If you say so. I sat on the carpet, resting my back against the corner of the couch. I looked up and there was my face, peering out of the television screen, mutely watching us, still in that not-sure-how-to-deal-with-the-camera phase. I truly duplicated the Warhol aesthetic...but really, nothing could have been easier. 'Edge, do you...' I began, only to be interrupted by two fingers over my mouth. And this happened a second time a few minutes later. Eventually you asked me a question...

('What do you think I like the most about this?')

'I don't know, maybe the fact that it's a silent film?'

('No. I like how you've turned yourself into a sort of still life, a lovely thing on display, although you are so much more than that to me.')

We watched the still life smile and chuckle; I turned to explain the tale behind that, but you mouthed the word 'no.' Eventually it dawned on me. I could only speak when spoken to. I exhaled. Then I took your hand and kissed it. You paused the tape as my image was in mid-yawn. Is my mouth really that big?

(We both know it is.)

You leaned over and kissed me gently. I wanted your tongue but you pulled away, saying...

('Go fix me a drink.')

Five syllables surrounding one hell of an implication. You wanted me to serve you, obey you, sit at your feet like a pet, dress to your specifications. I stood and looked at you. You unfastened the rest of the buttons on my shirt. I walked over to the bar and poured you a scotch. Because I wanted to do all those things for you. And you knew it.

I returned with your drink and a bowl of grapes I found in the small refrigerator. You had resumed watching my film. I offered the fruit and handed you the drink before returning to my spot of the floor. You motioned for me to join you on the couch, indicating that I should sit with my back against the arm, my legs arranged over your lap. I fed you four grapes. You held your glass to my lips and I took a sip. I started to see you with new eyes, lined in black...

('What else do you have for me?')

To say I had been longing to show you this item from the second it was in my possession would certainly not convey the eager fanaticism I maintained as I supervised its creation. It was a new guitar strap, black leather and wholly inconspicuous except for one area on the underside, where fifteen matching diamonds surrounded a slightly larger one, a circle designed to rest over your heart. 'One for each year I've known you, Edge...'

('Christ, B, we'll be lucky to break even with this tour...')

'You love it, don't you?'

('Of course I do. You're astonishing.')

You rewarded me with your tongue as you stripped the shirt from my body, saying...

('You haven't noticed yet, have you?')

'Noticed what?' You smiled.

('Your gift.')

'Oh Reg, I wasn't expecting anything from you...'

('Are you kidding?')

'Well, where is it?'

You nuzzled and bit my left ear, then my right ear.

'But I've had these earrings for years.'

('No you haven't.')

You removed one and showed it to me. It was indeed my usual small silver hoop earring. Except lining the formerly hollow inner ring was a series of hidden diamonds.

'Reg...how absolutely perfect...'

('Great minds think alike.')

'But how did you...?'

('I took your extra key last night and crept in while you were asleep. That's when I gave you these.')

'Not bad. What else did you do?'

('I guess you had to be there.')

You replaced the earring, stood, and told me to lie down. You fondled your guitar strap and said...

('Do you know what else Goethe said?')

'What's that?' I moved over a bit so you could sit beside me.

("Whoever wants something great must be able to limit himself.")

You wrapped the strap around my wrists and kissed my fingers, saying...

('How does that feel?')

I smiled.

('I think it should be tighter.')

You duplicated the procedure as I sighed, content, and soon my hands were resting above my head on the arm of the couch. You bent to kiss my chest, the first of a series of progressively potent kisses, asking...

('What do you love about women?')

I thought for a moment and answered, "I love the contrast between male and female. I love their softness, their curves, their strength. They are biological miracles. I love to watch a woman's hands gesture as she talks. I love that women are...the other."

('And what do you love about men?')

"I love you because...oh God...you seem to instinctively understand what I need, in a way a woman could not. And when we go further I have the feeling a sort of sexual telepathy will develop between us. I mean, physically, we've barely moved beyond kissing, but I'm already prepared to hand over everything to you. I know it will be that good. You know you are the only man I'd willingly submit to, and I love how you've been testing my limits tonight."

For the second exquisite time, I felt your full weight, along with fluid, interminable kisses that left me in a near stupor. You studied my face with a remarkable tenderness, saying...

('Those eyes of yours...')

You stole a fleeting glance at the television. I was smoking and staring back. You addressed my image...

('I'm glad you could watch this.')

...then you returned your attention to the real me. You ran a finger over my rough cheek. I kissed it and you said...

('Oh baby. Let's take care of you...')

"Edge, you're back...strawberry! Is that for me?"

"I told you I'd get you ice cream."

"Aren't you going to have one?"

"I want to see what you do with yours."

"Alright..."

"I have a groundbreaking theory about ice cream cones, B."

 

Chapter 9: Spider.

 

"I couldn't believe the music they were playing back there...that John Lennon Christmas song."

" _'And so this is Christmas...and what have you done?'_ I love that song."

"Yes, but in March? Nobody seemed to care."

"You were buying ice cream at three o'clock in the morning in New York City. And you've got to remember, Edge, every day with me is indeed Christmas day."

"Ho, ho, ho."

"In a while I'm going to give you something I think you'll really love. Have you been a good little boy?"

"As good as a boy could have been, given tonight's circumstances."

"Where's all that makeup I saw you wearing earlier?"

"Long gone."

"' _One is over, if you want it, One is over_...'"

"What was the best Christmas present you received as a child?"

"Oh that's easy. It was a record player--really cheap--that could close and be carried around like a briefcase. Brown vinyl, terrible sound, had to put coins over the needle so it wouldn't skip all the time. But I loved it dearly. How about you--a microscope or something?"

"Actually, one Christmas Mum got a new washing machine and she let me have the box. I had other new toys, but all I wanted to do was play inside the box. I cut a hole to make a window and painted it and everything. So each year my girls receive big cardboard boxes along with their other presents."

"I wish we could have known each other as little children."

"So do I, B."

"So how am I doing? With my ice cream?"

"Let's just say I hope my theory will be substantiated later."

"Thank you for this ice cream cone, by the way. It's so good. I could eat these all night long, baby. But you really should have bought me a much bigger cone because, well, I've seen you, and..."

"No need to get lewd."

"That's not what you said last night. Oh look, there's a little drip running down my chin. Wanna get that for me, Reg?"

"What will you do for me in return?"

"I'll review my performance--the one in your room last night. Now lick it off, you know you want to...mmm. I've been longing to revisit that scene. It was good, but I left out a few things. You know how verbal I am, and when you asked me to..."

"...have sex with me using only words..."

"...you really charged my imagination, but last night I'm afraid I may have been too mechanical."

"I thought your words, mechanical or not, where pretty successful. Maybe a little too successful."

"Finger, Reg? Please? Mmm."

"Your mouth is cold."

"Do you like it?"

"Yes."

"Well, let's keep that in mind. Alright. Two months. That's eight weeks, or..."

"Fifty-six days."

"Right, fifty-six days of foreplay. I've been more than indulgent with these waiting games. I want to suck you. Now."

"I know you do."

"I think the reason my descriptions were so perfunctory is that fact that they were merely based on speculation. I've never had you in my mouth before, and all I can do at this point is imagine what the experience would be like. Also, in my mind I've never framed the act within the context of a fantasy. I don't need to and I'm not interested in it yet. Although I think after a while fantasies will develop."

"Any ideas about what those might entail?"

"I'm fairly positive our secrecy will become a breeding ground for exhibitionistic desires. Benign displays of affection like holding hands or kissing on a crowded street will seem dangerous and sexy. What would it be like, Reg, if we had an audience? Watching you undress me onstage, for instance?"

"It would be the most bootlegged concert in history."

"You'd better believe it. How about this? Have you ever had sex outdoors?"

"Well, yes."

"The two of us, beneath an overgrown willow tree, its fringed branches tickling the grass, swaying back and forth like a beaded curtain...can you see it? Mirror ball patterns filtering in, covering our bodies with feathers of light--what are you doing to me under that tree, Edge?"

"I'm holding you down, Bono. I'm making you come."

"Yes you are, and we're not even ready for those fantasies yet. These days all I'm really seeing are flashes. When I look at a bed, a chair, a staircase, an elevator, even a floor...there we are for a split second, moaning, screaming, covered in sweat."

"Oh, Bono."

"Otherwise, I find myself obsessing over minutiae."

"Example."

"Lips. We've been kissing a lot, and I love the way you kiss. When you're finished with me, my lips feel swollen and new. And red. All the little wrinkles disappear. Today I was wondering if lips might be composed of erectile tissue. What do you think?"

"A circular erection..."

"Surrounding yours. Oh Reg, it must feel so good, for both of us."

"I've loved your mouth for years."

"Because the sounds it makes perfectly complement those of your guitar, your phallic guitar."

"Your instrument is feminine, wide open and receptive."

"Yes. So that's one illustration."

"What else?"

"I think about the psychological ramifications of--ahh, we're moving again. Every passing city block is bringing us closer to the act, you know. Do you have a watch? What a silly question, of course you do. Look at the second hand. It's comforting isn't it? Every revolution is one minute closer to me kneeling before you, taking you deep inside... My God, feel this, Edge."

"I know. Me too."

"What was I saying? Yes, once this happens, what thoughts will race through my brain?"

"What do you remember about losing your virginity? What were your thoughts then?"

"You're right, my mouth is a virgin, your virgin. Hmm. Probably nothing more than 'This is happening, this is finally happening.'"

"Okay. That's what you'll think with me."

"There's got to be more to it, though. The feeling of being penetrated, that kind of surrender will be a major step for me as a man to take. After that, there will be no turning back."

"But you've made up your mind. You want to do this."

"I do. Because once you're in my mouth, Reg, we will officially become...lovers."

"Lovers."

"Perfect word...kiss me. Kiss the mouth you want to fuck."

Tongue, deep. Teeth, biting. Two long, artistic fingers stroking my lips then parting them, my mouth eager and responsive. Two fingers, rhythmically thrusting, paving the way for their beautiful brother.

"I want to do this, I want to do this now, right here in the car."

"Patience, love. Look, we're almost there."

"Another dreamy night with you at the Plaza."

"'Paul, it is imperative that the band stay at the Plaza the next time we're in New York. That's all there is to it.' Said the demanding little rock star, stamping his feet..."

"Hey, we're here, aren't we? And yes, I am a rock star. Why shouldn't I enjoy some of the perks that go along with it every now and then? Oh. Stop here, Reg. Take a deep breath. Smell that?"

"Spring is getting organized."

"The revolution is taking place underground--dormant plants are waking up, circulating propaganda and petitions."

"Ahh, this place is world class.Tenth floor, please."

"Elevator music...oh my God, Reg--this is your song! ' _He was no more...than a baby then...well he seemed broken-hearted...something within him...but the moment...that I first laid...eyes...on...him...all alone on the edge of...seventeen'_ Ha! _'Just like a white winged dove...sings a song, sounds like she's singing...ooo, baby, ooo, said ooo_.'"

"I must apologize for my friend. He's emotionally exhausted and suffering from delusions that cause him to believe he's Stevie Nicks."

"I understand completely, sir."

"Thanks."

"1013, 1013...we are staying in my suite, aren't we?"

"If you like."

"My view of the park is glorious, and midtown seems to spread out forever."

"Grabbed yourself a corner room, did you?"

"Absolutely. Paul put his foot down when I requested the Vanderbilt suite. Alright, we need to pause before I unlock this door. We enter as...close friends, let's say. We exit as..."

"Lovers."

"You are correct, sir. Hmm. What the...? Let me try it again. Damn it--I hate these lousy credit card keys! There's obviously something wrong with this one. You try it, Reg."

"Magnetic strip down, B."

"Mr. Know-it-all."

"In you go."

Not bothering to turn on the lights, you pin me to the carpet within seconds of locking the door.

(I need to feel your body beneath mine.)

Substitute Edge! Where have you been?

(Lying dormant. Would you like to sign my petition?)

I'll do anything you say. God, your hands, your teeth...

(Your moaning...)

This is really going to happen.

(You know what I'd like you to do now?)

What's that?

(Talk.)

Yes. I agree.

"Last night when I was saying things to you, I was so hard I almost couldn't stand it. And watching your face change only made matters worse."

"Go on."

"You were sitting there in your bathrobe, not three feet away from me. When I told you how certain I was that you would fit the contours of my mouth perfectly, I saw your head tip back, your eyes gazing at the ceiling. I knew you were almost there."

"Say it again."

"You were designed to fuck my mouth...you belong there. I'm a man; I'll understand how to please you, Edge. I'll know exactly what feels best, I will..."

"Baby..."

"I'll know when to suck you hard, I'll know when to speed up, take it deep."

"Yes."

"I think it was then that you arched your back, a shuddering sigh blazing through your torso, your hands grasping the chair, a pillow...and...now I know what sounds you make when you come, love. I know that your head turns to the side and your chin presses against your shoulder."

"And..."

"I know how warm and slick and divine it feels when you rub it into my bare skin. I know how it feels to be marked by a man this way."

"We'd better..."

"Enjoy my view of the city, how about that?"

"Good idea. My God."

"I know. Me too."

"The city that doesn't sleep."

"Your lips are beautiful, Reg."

"Look at all the electricity. Do you ever think about the huge network of power lines blanketing America, connected to each other like a spider web?"

"No."

"If America is covered with one giant cobweb of wires, New York City is the spider."

"No darling, you are the spider. I am the fly, remember?"

"You realize what the spider does to the fly, don't you?"

"Yes, but why don't you tell me?"

"After the fly is foolish enough to become ensnared in the web, the spider bites it and paralyzes it."

"Bites the fly right on the neck, for instance?"

"Yes, bites him right here."

"A paralyzed fly would be at the spider's mercy."

"I don't think mercy has anything to do with it. The spider binds the fly, wrapping him up tightly in silk, saving him for later."

"Wanna tie me up?"

"When I'm ready, I'll crawl over to you..."

"Yes."

"...and suck you dry."

"Are you hungry yet, Edge?"

"I think we both know who comes first."


	4. Look/Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how Edge manages to tell that story, either, but you've got to remember he's not one of us.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading this, and I hope you enjoyed it. <3

10: Look.

"Edge."

Your hands grasp the lapels of my jacket from behind, slowly pulling out and back until it lies in a heap on the floor.

(I'm stripping you...)

You retrieve your chain from around my neck. Next to go is my shirt, which you pull over my head and gather at my wrists. In a genius move that testifies to your proclivities for makeshift bondage, you stretch my arms over my head and behind my back, the twisted shirt effectively binding them.

(...in front of midtown Manhattan.)

Ten spidery fingers crawl over my chest, creating a spiny sensation that somehow reminds me of harpsichord music. You whisper my name and kiss my jaw as I lean back against you.

"Bono."

I kick off my boots and watch you unfasten a belt, a button, a zipper. Leather pants that have learned to conform to my body now obey their new master and fall at your feet. You help me step out and finally remove everything else until I stand erect and...

"Naked for all New York to see. Stay here until I come back."

Well, they've all got to sleep sometime. I am ten floors up and it's dark in here.

No one can see me, let's be realistic.

(That doesn't make this any less...)

...heartstopping. Edge?

(Yes?)

Tell me this is right.

(This is right. I love you, Bono.)

And this will be...

(...so much better than you can even begin to imagine.)

Yes.

(You want me.)

Dear god yes.

(You've asked yourself this question fifty-six times.)

And fifty-six times the answer has been yes. Fifty-seven, actually.

(Then it's unanimous.)

Each of those lights out there represents a decision someone has made: on or off, yes or no.

(On. Yes.)

Unanimous. Incidentally Reg, who knew you could be this sexy?

(It's always the quiet ones, B.)

I hear the hushed footsteps of a man who walks in straight lines.

"That's what I like to see."

Which could mean a variety of things, but I take it as some kind of praise and smile at you, still fully clothed, still symbolically possessing the upper hand. You scrutinize me, your eyes gathering data to be placed in my permanent file located inside your brain. That would be the really big one...you'll find it between the folders marked 'bondage' and 'Boolean algebra.' You circle me twice. What is this strange new feeling called, Edge?

(Shyness, B. You're experiencing something we commonly call shyness.)

Extraordinary.

"Are you blushing?"

"Why don't you tell me, Reg?"

"Yes, you are!"

"Terribly exciting, isn't it...and you without your camera."

You kiss my burning cheek, murmuring happily, imperiously, even: "And I haven't touched you yet."

You appear to be enjoying yourself thoroughly, Reg. Or myself. You go about the business of answering certain unfathomable questions you've been harboring concerning the small of my back, my triceps, and my pelvis. Your fingers test my nipples for general responsiveness. You press your ear to my chest, listening carefully. If anyone else on the planet attempted to do these kinds of things to me, I might raise an eyebrow.

"Follow me; I want to show you something."

Again, if anyone else on the planet attempted to use that line on me...

(But this is me you're talking about.)

Of course. And you probably do have something to show me. You lead me to my blue, dimly lit bedroom, my arms still behind my back. Noticing my predicament, you remove the shirt.

"Look."

You turn my body. I confront my reflection in a full-length mirror, and once more you stand behind me. I watch your male hands as they methodically survey my upper body. And lower.

"I want this, Bono."

I inhale. I should have known you would use your left hand. I've watched it slide up and down countless guitar necks. Your fingers are cool, a bit shaky and tentative at first, but no less knowledgeable about your new instrument.

"It's yours."

You're touching me. You know...exactly...

(How could I not?)

I turn, kissing your neck clumsily. I can barely stand. Your left hand continues to practice its slow, repetitive sequence. When I finally meet your eyes their familiarity truly startles me. Eyes I've known half my life, eyes I trust, eyes I would die to protect...

(Kiss me.)

Your right arm embraces me, caressing my back and then my hair in an almost comforting manner.

(I know you're nervous.)

Yes, you would. You always have. You always find the right words.

"I love you more than I can say."

This is right. There will be no fifty-eighth question.

"Tell me what to do, Edge."

"You have a decision to make. We could do this in bed, or I could sit, or we could stay here in front of the mirror."

"Stay here. I want you to watch us."

"That's correct."

"You should sit, though. Let me bring you a chair. Oh..."

I whimper as you release me from your skilled clasp. I try to remember...yes, a chair.

(Over by the dresser.)

Right. I set it at an angle in front of the mirror.

(I will want to see everything.)

That's one of many reasons to love you, Reg. You sit in the chair and I kneel between your legs.

"Clothes on?"

"I kind of like the contrast, Bono...look."

It is sexy: you are the picture of propriety, relaxing in your sumptuous armchair, your face retaining that omnipresent air of quiet dignity.

(Meanwhile...)

I am your naked houseboy, an erotic plaything on fire for you.

(My favorite toy, my darling pet.)

"I like it too."

I rest my head in your lap as one of your fingers pushes a delinquent strand of hair behind my ear.

"This is getting long again."

You outline the contours of my ear with a languid fingertip. Its nail clicks against my earring.

"Diamonds on the inside," I sigh. You shift in your chair and I hear a belt, a button, a zipper.

"Oh my...beautiful, Edge."

“I'm going to tell you a story now."

You gently guide my face closer and continue to stroke my hair, soothingly, as if you were strumming an antique acoustic guitar.

"I think it was twelve years ago. You and I were sharing a hotel room--remember those days?"

I smile. We were so young.

"The room was terrible...light green plaster walls, crumbling in spots, two lumpy beds, a malfunctioning heater that forced us to open the window. The heat was stifling, but we were too lazy to do anything about it."

"I don't remember this at all, but do go on."

"There was a faded print of Vincent Van Gogh's Irises on a wall near your bed."

"Really? Great story so far, Reg. It's got it all: action, adventure, romance."

(Why don't you just start? It won't hurt you.)

"Outside our window was an animated neon sign, a blue shooting star with a pink tail. The star moved from left to right, followed by the expanding tail, and the combined colors filled our darkened room with a flickering, purple glow. Darling boy..."

One slow lick, base to tip, oh my god, Edge.

(Ohh.)

"Baby... My bed was next to the window. I had to lie on my side and face you so the sign wouldn't keep me awake all night. I was essentially a silhouette, and I was convinced you couldn't see me very well. You must have thought I was asleep, but I wasn't."

You're so warm, so alive...

(All yours.)

Another lick, skin like...like nothing else.

"Mmm... The sign made sure you remained well lit. You couldn't sleep either, love, and you threw off your sheet and groaned, naked and visibly frustrated."

Don't tell me you watched me...

"I was about to say something, or maybe get up and take a walk so you could have some privacy, but at the same time I didn't want to disturb you. No. To be honest, I couldn't stop watching you. In fact, you held me spellbound for nearly forty minutes."

I can't believe this--you watched me and I was completely oblivious.

(Come on, please, baby.)

A long wet kiss, the first of nearly forty long wet kisses, covering every square inch of you.

"Christ...you weren't just jerking off; you were making love to yourself..."

"Masturbation is sex with someone I love, Edge."

"Is that...Woody Allen?"

"For knowing that you get one right here."

"Oh god, yes...It, it was interesting the way you would build slowly and then stop for a minute or two to kiss your fingers, fondle your neck and collarbone, pinch your nipples. From time to time your left hand clutched the bed post near your head for no apparent reason."

You knew the reason even then...marvelous idol underneath my mouth.

"There was something artistic about your process, and I was fascinated by how purposely inefficient you were--skimming your erection with a ballerina's fingertips, grasping it occasionally, then back to teasing yourself. As I observed your heels digging into the blankets, your toes pointing and flexing, I found myself thinking, 'I should try this.'"

Just try to keep talking, Edge, I dare you.

(I dare you to actually suck me.)

"Your breathing was composed of barely subdued cooing and almost feminine sighs surrounding hazy obscenities."

Fuck me, Edge.

"Your eyes were wide open, looking up at your imaginary ceiling woman..."

You.

"...then closing. You bit your own bicep, and later the sheet was between your teeth. Soon your body, young and flawless, was glistening with sweat and lit by a progressively bright lavender illumination, a cycle that repeated every ten seconds."

"Edge, I love you."

The tip is engulfed, enclosed by my circular erection of lips, tongue, and teeth--that's right, gasp for me. Because this is happening, this is finally happening.

"...Bono...I hadn't moved a muscle--but no one sleeps that way, and, and I thought my charade was becoming too transparent, so I stretched slightly and pulled the sheet down to my waist."

Oh yes, you fit, I was right, you fit me and it's gorgeous, this feeling of penetration.

"You watched me do this, and I, I heard a low, quiet moan. Then it was back to your mystery girl. Your mouth was wide open..."

I wonder why?

"...gasping, your breathing shallow and quick. Ohh. You touched yourself with the hand of a sculptor, a ceramicist refining and perfecting his art."

Deeper, deeper, my hands pulling your hips closer--this is better, so much better than I thought.

"You lifted your hips, ahh, your lower back pressed into the mattress...I could hear...baby...its springs laboring beneath you."

You're inside my body.

(Take it all, darling.)

"A plastic cup of water was on the nightstand between our beds, and the surface of the water vibrated as if something huge, powerful, and dangerous were approaching."

Yes, God, fucking me, I don't care, I can taste you.

"Oh baby, you're so good...you, you looked at me again, extended that remarkable neck of yours, whispered 'Edge,' and took a ragged breath."

Edge. You're right. It's coming back to me now, I remember it... Please, hold my head in place, fuck my mouth; I remember it...

"God, you just know...I watched you, my best friend, this heavenly creature, dissolve into...

(You know what else you can do.)

Yes, my hands, cupping and squeezing you, probing, locating, penetrating you.

"...spasms that shook your, your entire being...Bono..."

(Oh baby, you're not.)

Of course I am; it's better this way.

"...your face buried in a pillow."

(Faster.)

"I heard a muffled 'Edge' as your tremors, darling, began to subside. You wanted me that night."

My nodding head silently agrees: yes, yes, yes, yes.

"Your breathing gradually...returned...to normal. I heard little satisfied sighs, another sleepy 'Edge.'"

Even then.

"You sat up, yawned, and slowly rose. Soon I heard, heard the sound of running water in the bathroom."

I love giving you pleasure, making you stutter...

"You returned and paused, kneeling before me quite like you are...now...my sweet boy."

...and kneeling before you.

"You stayed there and studied me with...the unguarded expression of a wild animal. I licked my lips."

I wanted to kiss them. Oh, this perfect submission...

"Bono...baby yes...I shivered when you touched my shoulder with that same balletic refinement, with those same fingers. You quickly withdrew."

...and yet this feeling of power.

(Flick your tongue right there, right there, right there.)

"You noticed my cup of water and swallowed every last drop."

You know I will, I will. You were lusting after me then. You're having me now.

"Still naked, you, you returned to your bed...ohh..."

Lovers. We are lovers.

"Come, Edge, I want it all."

"...an archetypical, beautiful man-child bathed in lavender."

Man woman boy girl, I'll be anything you want me to be. Anything you say.

"Oh dear God..."

Yes.

"Bono..."

Edge...

 

11: Closer.

Your chin detaches from your shoulder and you stare blankly at the unlit chandelier overhead, your hands limp at your sides. And your...

(...sperm...)

...are now entering my system, becoming part of my bloodstream.

(Well, not exactly.)

Reg, if I say they're entering my bloodstream, that's what they are doing.

(They.)

They. I know. Why does that seem funny?

(It's like they're little people who--)

"Mmm...baby..."

I stand, walk behind your chair, and kiss you upside down.

"Good story, Edge."

Your lips are cool and dry beneath mine, which seem ludicrously hot, wet, and swollen in comparison. Your smile spreads beneath them.

"Just like a girl's mouth right now."

"A girl who wants you to taste this."

I slip my tongue between your teeth...that's right, suck me, Edge. You ask unspoken questions and visually assess me. I'm very much okay.

"Well...say something."

"I'm speechless, B."

"Come on."

"It's just..."

"Please...you know how I get off on your praise."

"Well. In that case. Your debut performance was astoundingly self-assured, showcasing your already prodigious aptitude for this activity. Baby...shall I go on?"

I sink my teeth into a neck that is not compliant, not downy-soft, but resolutely male, rough and muscular. Your writhing entertains me.

"You got the teeth of the hydra upon you, Edge.”

I help you ease out of your clothing, acting as the lord of the manor's preferred valet, admiring muscles you would be able to identify accurately. I'll have to come up with my own nicknames...Sin-inspiring Shoulder-neck Bridge, Delectable Medium Leg Muscle.

(That's a sweet little sigh.)

Look at you. You're a fleshed-out Giacometti, a Modigliani, a Schiele, an El Greco.

(Please try to stay on-topic, B.)

I hate to sound cliché, but that's what you are--you're a work of art, at once slender and yet formidable. Your intelligence finds its home even in the contours of your body. It's strong, efficient, ergonomically designed, like some kind of high-tech weapon. A sexy weapon.

"Got any other good stories, Reg?"

"Tip of the iceberg."

"Nice to know. I'll be back in a minute."

I head to the bathroom to splash some water on my face, but as I approach the door I slow down. I stop. I turn around.

(Love.)

It hits me: I can't bear to leave your side; you've inculcated this need over the course of fifty-seven days, and now...

(...now that you're my lover...)

...I'm lost, I'm middle-of-the-ocean lonely without you, and you're a mere twenty feet away. Should I be worried?

(No.)

"Are you alright?"

"Edge, ehm, would you come in here with me?"

"What's wrong?"

You stand and join me at the bathroom door. Naked, you seem much taller than me.

(That's because...)

I know why. Soon I am enfolded in your concerned arms, and I see myself reflected in your kind, still mostly indescribable eyes.

"Bono?"

"I know it sounds ridiculous...I'm afraid to look in a mirror without you...am I...?"

"It's all right."

"Reg, am I still the same person?"

"Of course you are."

"This hasn't changed me somehow?"

"Baby...I'll be your mirror."

You study my face, troubled, and a finger erases the lines of apprehension between my eyebrows.

"You're still the same man I've been in love with for years."

"Years?"

"I'm sure of it now. Actually, there's a new vulnerability here..."

You kiss my eyelids. A tear that has been clinging heroically to my right eye finally admits defeat and spills onto my cheek.

"...that makes you more beautiful than before, okay?"

"I don't know what to say. Thank you, Edge."

"Go ahead."

"I was going to wash my face, that's all."

"I'll be right here if you need me."

"Okay."

It's just a mirror, after all. And of course I'm still me. It's not like my face has been drained of all color or I've sprouted horns or anything. I am the same as before.

(Before.)

This happened.

(I really do love you, B.)

I know. I watch your reflection in the mirror as I wash my face. You absently bite a cuticle while your left hand uses the doorframe as an improvised fingerboard. You remind me of a dancer, standing offstage, quietly marking time and practicing her steps by mimicking them with her fingers.

(Tell me what you're thinking.)

"It was just...so powerful. Even with all the waiting...I still wasn't prepared for the intensity...oh Edge...but it was..."

"Good?"

"Mmm. You'll simply have to find out for yourself, now, won't you?"

(Someone's back to normal.)

"Do you have any idea how disarming your smile is to me, Bono?"

You approach and kiss my upper back, and I feel a few arbitrary pokes.

"These freckles kind of resemble Orion."

"The constellation? Classic you. Any fun facts I should know about Orion?"

"He's got a huge nebula under his belt."

"Listen to you. I'll bet he does. Nebula. They form stars, right?"

"Very good.”

You run a thoughtful finger along my erection, re-igniting a frisson of lust and need.

"Are you sleepy?"

"Anything but."

(Now who's nervous?)

You're so lame and cute when you're stalling.

"Are you hungry? Because we could order room service."

"No. I just ate something, remember, Edge?"

You lick my stubble, unearth a razor, and present it to my lips. I kiss it.

"I might want to...you know..."

"Oh Edge, don't make me wait anymore, please."

"Or I could give you a bath. I can't decide. Any ideas?"

I suppose I shall be forced to take on the posture that virtually guarantees I will get my way.

(Ahh yes. The shy slump, with your face tilted down ever so slightly, eyes looking up. Lick your lips.)

How about my voice?

(Low. Hypnotic. Purring. With just a hint of desperation. I'll love that.)

Excellent plan.

"Please, Edge, I don't know how much longer I can endure this."

(Run your fingers through your hair, love. That's right.)

"Haven't I been good? Please."

(Kiss my hand. And I don't think I need to tell you to...)

Suck your thumb? Way ahead of you.

(What we need now are some innocuous comments.)

"You've been calling me baby tonight, and I like that very much. Have you noticed that I'm saying Reg less often? It seems a bit too informal now, given our...sexual dynamic."

Several ballerina's fingers slither over your shoulder and chest as you close your eyes, breathing slowly.

"So I'm using Edge more, but is there anything else you would like me to call you?"

(Nice detour.)

Isn't it? I have no idea where this is going, but I'm sure I'll come up with something. I arrange my arms around your neck, casually fondling that little braid.

We stand chest to chest, our hearts at a diagonal, and one of your hands monitors both heartbeats. We're slow dancing without moving.

"I love using Edge, but everybody calls you that. We need a private name just for us, when we're together like this, when we're naked in bed, for me to use occasionally. Don't you agree?"

"Yes."

"Hmm."

(Whisper it, but I do want to see your eyes.)

"Edge."

"Bono."

"Shall I call you master?"

"Baby..."

"Or do you like sir?"

"You..."

"Ahh. That's the one, I can tell."

(Sweetheart. If he won't suck you tonight, I will.)

Deal.

(Now make your case, slowly, with just a bit more anguish.)

"Please, please, I need this right now or I might...can't you see how greedy, how miserable it is? Don't make me wait any longer, please. I know...it's your decision, you say when I come, but...sir...I've been so hard for so long, my god, please, I'm on the verge of tears..."

"Shh."

And in fact I am on the verge of tears as your arms, tighter than any silk binding, engulf my surrendered body, paralyzed by your practiced tongue.

"Please..."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Your bed."

I am vaguely aware of my bare feet moving backwards across tiles, then sinking into carpeting, then--did you lift me? That seems unlikely, but somehow I am on my back, cradled in lush golden blankets that smell like sunlight. And there is your face, suspended above mine, and there is your mouth again, tender and slow, sighing...

"Lovers."

"I could probably come up with a couple of mediocre anecdotes for your amusement."

"No. I want you to lie back and concentrate on what I'm going to do to you. Passively. You can be as vocal as you wish, but no stories and no requests."

"Because you control this."

"There's a reason why you're on your back, love..."

"Sir?"

"Baby..."

"I adore you."

(Moan for me.)

dear God, Edge you watched me lavender I didn't even know your hands all over my chest your teeth are biting not biting but something my nipple same number of nerve endings as a woman you used to flinch when I touched you oh Edge the way you look on top I want this Bono your weight skin on skin I need to know what it feels like solid not yielding hard not soft so male sugar on my finger only kissing only kissing you like attention you were staring at my arms you touched my hair tell me why Edge one need in the night make love with only words my God I know me too go down please yes I can't even breathe anymore naked in my bed so many possibilities

(Let go, baby, louder.)

diamonds on the inside want it all now look at us Edge take it take it I belong to you suck you dry your tongue like that right there right there you're better than I was I know it oh go deeper take it all please back me onto your bed into a corner blow right through me kohl spinning globes a man's mouth sexual telepathy willow tree moaning and screaming and covered with sweat fine line between too rough and just right nearly forty minutes you know precisely how to scissors razor steam chandelier alter me only when spoken to make me beg sit at your feet I'll beg all night for this fireworks copper snow

(I'm playing your body like an instrument. Sing for me. Only me.)

I don't trust your hands Bono perfect submission how can you possibly sustain that rhythm blushing objectification your profile look at me so capable so strict I'll come so hard for you it's getting closer red I'm red you're green crave your discipline stars ice covet me you want me in your mouth you've seen what I've wanted you to see I swallowed and now you're inside me I'm inside you hard against my leg hold me down both wrists don't you dare let me move want to suck you again I think it should be tighter beautiful boy beautiful boy not a body anymore I'm glowing I'm flying into the sun baby baby baby on my back for you on fire for you sir I'm not fucking your mouth it's fucking me it's fucking me

(Yes. Scream my name. Scream it.)

Edge, Edge--oh God--Edge-

diamonds in your mouth...

(Good boy.)

I feel chilly air surrounding my wrists the second you release them. My fingers fly to touch your face, your hair ears neck, anything I can possibly find, and I pull you up until your head shares my pillow. You wear the expression of a man who has committed the perfect crime. I wear the expression most people reserve for encounters with extraterrestrials. You chuckle and kiss my neck as I attempt to catch my breath.

"Edge..."

"Was I as good as you were?"

"I'm powerless to describe it...really..."

"You know how I get off on your praise."

"Yes. Just momentarily hypnotized...orbiting Saturn...unbelievable."

"That's okay. I guess that distended A sharp scream pretty much said it all."

"You are gorgeous when you're full of yourself."

"You're gorgeous when you're full of myself as well."

"I'd throttle you for that...if I could only figure out how to reanimate my arms and legs. Seriously. It's like the last eight weeks passed before my eyes in a blur as you...my God, you sucked me off, Edge, didn't you?"

"All arrows point to yes."

"Are you...?"

"Fucking divine."

"Mmm. Sir..."

"Baby."

"Ehm...hand shadows?"

"Would you like to join me?"

We each raise a hand in the air, and the bedside lamp creates abstract shadows on an adjacent wall. Our actual fingers never touch, but the overlapping shadows embrace, stroke, and dance with each other. Lovers. How beautiful you are.

"I guess we're a bit more than blood brothers now, B."

"Oh my God."

"Remember...?"

"Of course I do. Down by the river...we were, what? Eighteen?"

"Only marginally drunk."

"You accidentally cut your finger on a broken beer bottle, poor Edge. Did I kiss it to make it better?"

"Is there really any question?"

"In a display of solidarity, I declared the two of us should be more than friends, more than bandmates; we should be brothers."

"Before I knew it you had pricked your fingertip with the glass and were pressing it against mine."

"Like this, with the rest of my fingers draped around your hand."

" 'Blood brothers,' you declared, and you kissed my cheek, you little nymph, before scrambling to the water, issuing your proclamation to the world..."

" 'Brothers--Edge and Bono are brothers!'"

"And now..."

"And now...kiss your new lover, Edge."

Our bodies swim beneath buttery sheets, my hands free to do as they please. I am a child with a big cardboard box, but it's way past my bedtime. I bury my face in your chest. You turn off the light. Your arm envelops my shoulder, and even in sleep I am passive. I am yours.

.................................................

(Wake up, love. Listen...)

" _If I could make the world as pure...and strange as what I see...I'd put you in the mirror...I put in front of me...I put in front of me...linger on, your pale blue eyes...linger on, your pale blue eyes..._ "

"Mmm, Edge...Velvet Underground. I love it when you sing."

"I love you."

"What time is it?"

"The sun is rising."

"So good...you were so good."

"Look at me, love."

"Don't you want to sleep?"

"No. This won't take very long. I want to watch your eyes turn blue."


End file.
